


Going, Going, Gone

by Lesca Fenix (lescafenix)



Category: Final Fantasy X-2
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 10:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lescafenix/pseuds/Lesca%20Fenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With their new roles in Spira taking up all their time, Gippal's and Baralai's days are filled with work, with little time to enjoy the openness slowly blossoming all around them. Gippal's ready to change that, with a little help from a few of his (chemical) friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going, Going, Gone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [godsbow_lithium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/godsbow_lithium/gifts).



> Gippal/Baralai. Post-game, Gippal is the only arms dealer in Spira, and therefore has more gil than he knows what to do with. Baralai is a man of fine tastes: scotch, fine fabrics, fancy parties. Gippal likes nothing more than to pull up on his hover and tell Baralai to hop aboard to supply him with that and more. This can be romantic, or it can be a story of two people who have too much for their own good. Smut is great, smoking and other excesses as mentioned below are even better.

“Hel-lo! What’s a guy got to do to get some attention around here? Is that the reason they built this city like a freaking labyrinth? So nobody can find anyone?”

Yeah, so the guards standing around the Praetor’s offices, or whatever they call them here in Bevelle look about as thrilled to see me as my mom used to be when I would come running into our apartment at Home with my latest pet hedgehog or lizard that I’d liberated from the surrounding desert. Ma never carried a gun on her hip, though, let alone wished she could use it. I know these clowns would give anything to pull those triggers.

“Bar-a-lai! Praetor! Yoo-hoo!” I walk past the guards, giving a couple of them my most winning smile to see if its effectiveness has improved at all in six months. No dice. Still, what are they going to do to me? Not only am I the leader of the Machine Faction, but I put those very weapons into their hands. Or, into Bevelle’s hands, who put them in their hands. One itchy trigger finger gone awry and Bevelle’s out a weapons dealer.

No, not a weapons dealer. _The_ weapons dealer, even if I do say so myself. While the Machine Faction still maintains a core business in salvaging and refurbishing old machina, we’ve branched out now and have begun to duplicate and produce certain designs that have a… high demand. And in the biggest irony of them all, Bevelle is our best customer.

I like to think it’s because I’m just that damn good. However, it’s more likely because the Praetor of New Yevon can’t tell me no.

And with a rustle of robes, he appears around the corner, tailed by the red-faced young watch commander who hadn’t believed me when I’d told him that yes, the Praetor was in, and it was in his best interests to let him know I was here.

“Yo, Ba—“

And just like that we’re outside on one of the dozens of little balcony-things that they have all over the place in Bevelle—pretty sure they’ve got one for each person—and Baralai’s got me shoved up against the smooth stone wall. I’d call that success.

“Are you high? Drunk?” he hisses in my face. “You realize there’s an entire temple full of old-time Yevonites who would gladly spend the rest of their life in the Via Purifico for the chance to put a bullet between your eyes?”

“Does it matter? Would you like me to be?” I hold up my hands in mock surrender as Baralai looks like he wants to punch me. “And they know as well as I do that my buddy the Praetor’s not gonna let ‘em.” _For oh-so-many reasons,_ I add silently. Baralai clenches his jaw and shoves away from the wall, stalking over to the balcony’s railing.

“Why are you here, Gippal?” he finally huffs, running his fingers through his hair. “Did you not receive a payment? Did the Yevon Revival militia start harassing your supply lines along the Djose High Road again? Is Nooj trying to get you into treaty talks?”

“All good guesses, and all equally likely.” _Holy Haboob_ , there is really nothing like yanking Baralai’s chain. “But not the case.”

“Then what?” His eyes are bulging, and I’m trying not to laugh. I can’t wait to see the look on his face.

“I’m bored.”

Baralai doesn’t disappoint. He stops still and stares at me, jaw slack, bulgy eyes now squinted. “Say that again?”

“Bored. B-O-R-E-D. People like me and you can’t sit still too long, Baralai, or we die one day and forget we did, like that Maechen guy Nooj told us about that hung out at the Youth League camp.”

Baralai either doesn’t remember, or isn’t impressed. I’ll just say it’s the former. Time to press my case.

“Look. Last time we had any kind of downtime was in Luca, after our big public speaking debut. You remember, that bar outside the Blitz stadium?”

“I was nervous! I was just calming my nerves!” Baralai crosses his arms over his chest, and I can’t even maintain my composure at his indignation. He's so cute when he's petulant.

“You didn’t start hitting the gin until after we got done!” I can barely get the words out. I refuse to let this politician get me off track, though. No, I’m prepared for him.  “Besides. You thought giving an apology speech to a group of mixed up Spirans in a stadium was exhausting. How’s herding them around and trying to get them to do anything meaningful to move their society forward going?”

“These things take time,” Baralai begins, spouting his well-rehearsed line on cue, and I can’t even stand to listen to it again.

“Look, Praetor, we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. I want to do it the way that involves you, me and a bunch of stuff that guys like us get paid a lot of money to do and not get caught.” I’m through messing around with him. The sun’s high in the sky, and I’ve got a hover to the Calm Lands waiting outside. That is, if one of those Bevelle jerks haven’t made off with it.

 Baralai scrubs his hands over his face. I think he’s wavering. “I’ve got a legislative session to prepare for, and a coalition government to try to work on joining, and a new temple hierarchy to try to implement. Absolutely not.”

“Sounds like you need to do some field work. Talk to your constituencies. In the Calm Lands. The Little People. Come on.”

Baralai finally throws his hands up. “Fine! Fine. I’ll go. I’ll go. Just… okay. I’ll go.”

I was already arming myself with more compelling reasons as to why I was a better date than any New Yevon politicians. It was almost disappointing that he gave in so easily.

“To the Calm Lands!” I point toward the south, before pivoting to head toward the door.

“To a fact-finding mission,” Baralai said, a little too loudly and pointedly as we walked inside.

“Right. A fact-finding mission.” I give a nod and a wink, then nudge shoulders with my red-faced friend. “I’ll just wait at the hover, if you don’t mind.”

Baralai glances around at the guards, their hands all back on their weapons. “I think that’s probably a good idea.”

* * *

The Calm Lands is one of the few areas of Spira that actually looks like it’s making real progress. I’m not just talking about building new buildings, or using machina, or allowing a few token Al Bhed to work in the area to give the illusion of tolerance. No, the Calm Lands has grown into this anything-goes area where Al Bhed, Yevonite, Youth Leaguer and everyone in between can explore things that the morality police in the temples had kept in the shadows and labeled as wrong. The priests knew what the Al Bhed have known forever—the more people are allowed to explore themselves and each other without oppression, the more they realize we’re all pretty much the same. We’ve all got the same plumbing downstairs—well, unless you’re a Hypello, I guess—we all like to kick back, get off, and get loose, and we all at some point get absolutely sick of reality.

And Praetors are no different. All it takes it getting him out of Bevelle—and out of those stupid robes—to see ten years come off the guy’s face. It was like the wind from the hover blew the crow’s feet from the corners of his eyeballs as we raced toward the Calm Lands.

“This place really has changed since I was last here,” Baralai’s musing for the fifth time as he accepts another gimlet from the cute Al Bhed boy who’s been keeping us lubricated all night. I can tell the gin is doing its job, because Baralai’s eyes linger on the boy’s firm ass as he heads back to the bar to grab his next orders.

“That’s what happens when you don’t get out,” I remind him. This is one of my favorite places on Spira—a dark little inn up near the northwest corner of the Calm Lands, where more… mature businesses have sprung up to cater to the people who are bored with chocobo races and sky slots. You can dance your way, fuck your way, or consume your way to a whole different outlook on life at on of these places.

That’s why I think it’s essential for someone who thinks he’s going to be making the rules the rest of us are going to be governed by to spend some time here.

Of course, he stopped talking public policy three drinks in. Once I’d managed to convince him with a few shots of the herb liqueur that’s the house specialty that he was as sick of bitching about politicking and backbiting as I was of hearing about it, that is.

“See, this is the new era we were talking about in that Blitz stadium after the Vegnagun thing,” I make it a point to say to him, gesturing with the short piece of glass tubing I’m holding between my fingers like a cigarette. I’m working on my fourth of five thin lines of powder, and the quieter Baralai gets, the more I want to chat.

It’s different when I’m talking politicking, after all. I point at the mass of people clustered together on the dance floor in front of the circle of musicians playing on a drum set constructed of found materials as a haze of sweet, pungent smoke curls overhead among the flickering machina lighting. “I told you. The Calm Lands is the epitome of New Spira. They don’t care who they’re pressed up against. They just know it feels good. When’re the rest of you gonna buy into the idea that we all really want the same things? When’re you going to stop preaching that shit you know isn’t good for anyone but the guys who want their temples back?”

“Because it’s what people want to hear,” Baralai sighs, shaking his drink and watching the limes bob up and down. “They get itchy when they don’t hear it. They get scared.” He’s quiet for a moment, then chuckles. “Guess it doesn’t make sense, does it? It’s just the way Yevon has always been. It’s how the script goes, and people like what they know. It’s part of being a New Yevon leader. You really buy into everything you say?”

“I’m a salesman. If I won’t buy what I’m selling, why should anyone else?” Lying is like abstinence. Nothing good ever comes from it. “At some point the story’s gotta change, or else you’re going to be stuck in the same, repetitive nightmare you’ve been in forever. Didn’t what happened to Yuna teach you anything?”

Baralai’s staring at the bouncy Al Bhed boy, who’s packing something into the hookah situated on a neighboring table. Yeah, he’s not listening.

“You know what? You’re right. Forget being Praetor tonight. Just be Baralai.”

“Working on it,” Baralai murmurs, still watching the bouncing ass nearby.

That gin really does the trick. But we’re just beginning. I reach out and wave my gil sphere, and it catches the boy’s eyes, which are swirled and glowing like briskly stirred drinks under the lights. “Ubeis,” I tell him, motioning to the empty hookah on our table. “Packed with all the love you’ve got in you.” I raise an eyebrow and hope he gets the point.

“Lucky for you, I’ve got a lot of love to pack,” the boy winks at me, then Baralai as he bounces back to the bar. He hasn’t sat still since we got here. I’ll have whatever he’s snorting.

We’re not here to go up, though; we’re here to chill out. And Ubeis will do it. It’s a flower that grows all over the place on Spira, but a thousand years ago or so, people in Bevelle realized that people in Zanarkand were going to Al Bhed country in the south (before they drove us off to Bikanel) and coming back with jars full of sticky dark brown stuff that made them want to hang out, have fun, and not start wars with anyone. Yevon and his cronies couldn’t have that, so as soon as they finished stomping Zanarkand into a bunch of fayth, they outlawed ubeis and tried to burn it down wherever it could be found.  It’s making a comeback now, since we’ve lovingly grown the flowers in our greenhouses in Home the whole time and clandestinely sold the seeds to anyone willing to pay the price. They probably grow ubeis in some of those nice water gardens up in Bevelle.

Baralai doesn’t smoke the stuff, though. At least not in Bevelle. He doesn’t trust himself. Not with those monsters circling. It’s funny that he trusts a bunch of high as hell Al Bhed and Youth League soldiers on furlough more than he trusts his own priests and politicians.

Bouncy Boy comes back with a small, flat container of ubeis, a sweaty pitcher of water, and a machina heating element. He opens the hookah, dancing along as he works and casting Baralai small, almost amusingly shy looks. Baralai’s so taken with him that I’m considering telling him what I saw that boy doing last week with that Shelinda chick who always hosts the news.

Nah, don’t want him to stomp out in a huff. That wouldn’t be good for public relations, now would it?

The twink finally finishes with the pipe and hands me a hose with a mouthpiece. Leaning over so far he nearly touches foreheads with Baralai, he holds he other mouthpiece up to Baralai’s lips. Baralai draws it into his mouth, and I’m about to vomit into his gimlet.

“Do you ever ogle any ass that isn’t Al Bhed?” I finally ask him, scooting over and bumping into him hard enough to knock his forehead against the boy’s, who's acting like he's sticking his penis into the Praetor’s mouth instead of a mouthpiece. The boy scowls and rubs his forehead, and I've got to admit there’s a moment of smug satisfaction when I see he’s sort of staggering instead of bouncing back to the bar.

“What’s it matter to you?” Baralai asks, taking a gentle, tentative drag. The water bubbles, and the smoke itself is enough to make my skin melt just a little. I take a drag of my own, and let the cool smoke soothe my lungs for a moment, before breathing it out.

“It’s not anything. Just something I noticed. You like skinny Al Bhed boys old enough to be your son.” I’m not generally one to start pointing out the real reason Baralai hasn’t made his New Yevon constituents happy and gotten a wife, but enough powder and booze gets the truth flowing.

“If I was having kids when I was 12, maybe,” Baralai snorts back at me, taking a long drink of his refreshed gimlet. I got a double shot of agave liqueur, smooth and just the slightest bit salty, complimenting the sweet-and-sour taste of the ubeis smoke.

“I’m just saying, you’ve never met an Al Bhed ass you didn’t like,” I press, leaning in and blowing a perfectly formed smoke ring in his face. That takes practice.

“I’ll have you know, I’ve never met an Al Bhed ass, period,” Baralai retorts. He doesn’t know how to blow smoke rings, so his breath comes out in a cloudy rush. “Well, I take that back. I’ve met one.” The ubeis is doing its job, and he’s so amused by his little quip that he’s laughing before it even has a chance to hit me.

I still laugh, though, because it’s funny. Al Bhed ass. Like a donkey. That’s clever. Clever, clever Praetor. It takes several deep breaths and several draws of ubeis to calm it down.

“Why do these nights always end up at my sex life, anyhow? We go out, and you spend more time concerned about who I’m looking at than anything else,” Baralai asks, gesturing with his mouthpiece.

That’s bullshit. I tell him that, too, then reach out to try to flag down a waiter that isn’t Al Bhed and looking to score a quick handful of gil in the men’s room. He’s still protesting behind me.

“Okay, Mr. Salesman. If I won’t buy what you’re selling…” he's going on.

Still not listening, and I really need another shot and a drink if we’re going to be arguing again, because Baralai doesn’t like to let arguments go, especially when he’s drunk. I have to perch up on my knees on my seat and bounce up and down as I wave my arms to get someone else’s attention, but I eventually get a girl who looks young and fresh out of a Yevonite temple. It must be hard work to look that way.

As I turn and collapse back into the seat, I notice Baralai’s staring at me. “What?” I’m sweaty now. I need more ubeis.

“You know when you show up to Bevelle on a sales call with new machina to get us to invest in…” Baralai muses, and I wonder if he’s going to be able to get through the sentence. “You always talk for hours, showing off the stupidest stuff somtimes... and just when I think we’ve seen everything you’ve got and I’m not interested in any of it, you pull out the good stuff. I know you’ve always got something good in there, a new vehicle, some machina control mechanism, a spherecorder system, something. Sometimes I sit through the other stuff and tell you 'no' just to see what you’re really there to sell.

“I don’t get it.” I hate it when he goes back to business and I’m not ready for it. I’m about to call Bouncy Boy back and ream him a new one for packing the hookah wrong.

Baralai’s suddenly in my space—no, in my face—and the pressure on the back of my head isn’t my eyepatch after too much agave, but his firm fingertips. “What are you really selling, Gippal?” he growls. His breath smells like my parents’ garden at Home when I was a kid. “What are you really selling?”

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my Machine Faction expansion, it’s never to walk away from a willing buyer.

His mouth tastes sour-sweet, and his teeth gouge the inside of my lower lip. The world shimmers as I take a drag of him, and I grip his head to match his hold on mine, in case he isn’t paying attention. I hear the double clink and rattle of glasses set onto the table, and light footsteps bounce away from the table and disappear into the noise of the dance floor.

_Sold._


End file.
